


Fall From my Head

by Grimmseye



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Amnesia, Caleb has a constant internal conflict but what else is new, M/M, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, rez fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2019-11-13 16:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18035081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grimmseye/pseuds/Grimmseye
Summary: He gets the sense that not even the end of the world could stop them, now, let alone petty things like exhaustion. They’ve been missing this piece for so long, but they knew where they’d lost it — now they have a chance of fitting it back into its place.-----The Mighty Nein return to Mollymauk's grave, and find it empty.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from my absolute favorite Mollymauk song, [No Story Time.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OS95nUDem4Y) The lyrics punched me in the gut the first time I listened to it after episode 26.

It’s Beau’s idea to visit him. 

The words are said in the quiet of night, as alcohol relaxes the tongue. They think back to the first days, regaling Caduceus with stories that feel beyond belief, but that he can see are true. A strange meeting in a bar, a tiefling reading cards. Not a scam, Jester smiles. The cards guided his words but he only told her what he saw. He invites them to a circus that becomes a blight of undead, Yasha taking to the woods, a cluster of them put under house arrest and holed up in a tavern room. Sailing out to a strange island in pursuit of a fiend. 

When Caleb was just a quiet, dirty man, when Nott was just a goblin with sticky fingers. Fjord just a sailor lost on dry land, Jester a naive girl too far from home. Beau hardened and brutal and Yasha barely known. Mollymauk, just a pretty face atop a bundle of scars and lies. 

A simpler time. He does not long for it, no. There is very little any of them miss about those times. But they miss that pretty face sometimes, the kindness on a devil’s tongue. Fingers that slipped gold into pockets instead of taking it. They recall him dancing upon the gates of Hupperdook, how he clashed down on his hips before forcing himself into a shaking handstand to walk upon his palms, and the tale has them laughing until they are wiping tears from their eyes in mirth and mourning alike.

And Beauregard says, “We should visit him.” 

A quiet falls. The log in the fire cracks, sends embers up like sprites in the wind. 

“I miss Molly,” Jester whispers. 

And Caduceus takes his kettle from where it hangs above the blaze, to pour a cup of tea for them each. “You remember him,” he rumbles, a small smile on his face. “And so does the earth. Good things remain, where your friend touched.” 

  
.  
  
  


The truth is this: Caleb did not know Mollymauk Tealeaf all that well. None of them did. Yasha, perhaps — she knew his nature and his history, and truly that was all there was to know. They knew a man with two years in his memory, who lied as though it let him breathe but never once hurt them doing so. He laughed at them, he fought with them, he bled for them, the red of his eyes leaking down his cheeks before his knees gave way. He loved joy, he loved love, he found it and shared it in flowers and kisses. 

Perhaps Caleb knew him just as well as he needed. A sharp palm on the cheek, a brush of lips to the forehead. Mollymauk was a simple man. He knew what he wanted, he found it, and he fought tooth and nail to keep it. 

It killed him, doing that. There’s a lesson to be learned there, Caleb knows, but his ambitions will simmer slow.

Glory Run Road is a trudging path for them. Summertime brings with it an oppressive heat at their backs that gentles as the sun begins to fall away. The sky shines orange and pink, halos glowing behind the clouds. A beetle lands on Nott’s nose, shiny jade, and she shrieks until Caduceus scoops it up and sweet talks it to join the swarm in his staff.

Caleb does not smile, but he feels a warmth that does not burn. There was a time when she might have shied away from such a familiar touch. There was a time when he would have bristled at the way the firbolg pats her head. But he has known these people, and he thinks — he thinks he may love these people. 

He might call them family if the word did not make guilt stick in his throat. 

And yet, when he looks around their cart, he cannot help but feel there is something missing. He remembers a smooth, crooning voice, and sharp teeth, and skilled, gentle hands. Huddling together, Beau at his back, Nott at his chest, between him and Molly, whose tail draped over his hip as they took shelter from the cold, sought to fill the empty spaces their stolen friends left behind. He remembers curling up in his conjured hut after the fact, and how even with a new, larger body to take his place, there was an absence. 

It is breathtakingly unfair, he thinks. Death? To be killed, to be  _ taken?  _ It is unfair. It is just another reason to turn back the clock. The things he could fix, the things he could  _ do. _ Yasha’s wife — who is to say she doesn’t have room in her heart for more than one person, hold her wife’s hand at one side and Beauregard’s at the other. Veth will never take the name Nott. Mollymauk will never be slain. 

Caleb is not a good person, not the way Mollymauk was, but perhaps he could  _ do _ good. 

“A tealeaf out of his book,” he mumbles, as they come to the gravesite of someone he’d never had the guts to call a friend. 

When they don’t see a flash of color as they approach, the somber twists to something sharp, and cold. Either his coat is gone, tugged away in an unfortunate wind, or it was stolen. 

Jester breaks the silence, her voice high-pitched and desperate, “I should have — I — I should have asked the Traveler to keep an eye on it,” she bursts out, her hands clutching in her hair. There’s such  guilt tearing up her soft face that it tugs Caleb’s heart. “I could have asked him to protect his coat. Or, or to curse anyone who takes it —” 

Caduceus puts a hand on her shoulder, cutting her off with a gentle squeeze. “The Wild Mother knows this is hers to care for,” he murmurs. “I can ask her if anyone came by.”

“Ask her  _ who,”  _ Beau growls. “So we can  _ find  _ them.” 

The truth is, Caleb thinks, even if the coat weren’t taken or lost, it would be foul. Mildewy and washed out — much like the man in the ground, he’s sure, and the thought makes him sick. 

“Next time I am  _ totally  _ cursing this place,” Jester grumbles. “Molly would think that’s cool, I bet.” 

They trek closer, following the post Caleb had driven into the ground at the grave he’d dug out, heads turning in the vague hope they might find the coat caught in a nearby tree, not gone, just wandered off. There’s nothing, though. Just dirt, and patches of grass, and a branch in the ground. 

And an empty hole.

They don’t stop. They all must see it, but they don’t stop. They don’t say a word. The horses grow quicker. They jump from their mounts and out of the cart and they swarm through the loose dirt and crowd around the grave, and not a single one of them is surprised to find it empty. 

They stare. They breathe. 

“Z-Zadash,” Jester starts, her head jerking up. “You told him to meet us in Zadash.” 

“Holy _ shit,” _ Fjord curses, rubbing the back of his head. “Can we — how long ago was this?”

Caleb’s eyes flicker over the grave. He’s faintly aware of Yasha’s breath, raspy and heavy, of Beau shaking. “Not long,” he says. “A — a day. Maybe longer. There was rain before that, the dirt would have washed back in if it was earlier.”

He cannot  _ process  _ this. And neither can the rest of them, stunned silent until, “Well what — what are we  _ doing  _ here?” Nott is the one to break it, wringing her hands in her shirt. “He’s going to Zadash, right? And we’ve got horses, we can catch up to him!” 

“That is assuming that nothing else did first,” Caleb mumbles, and gets a harsh elbow from Fjord. When he glares to him, Fjord jerks his head to Yasha. Her head is down, her breath quick and deep. 

“...Right,” Caleb whispers. “That was a misjudgement on my part. If anything, we are very, very lucky, he did not leave long ago.” 

“ _ We  _ need to go, _ ”  _ Beau barks, and the rest of them hurry to pile back onto their mounts. “You know what? Leave the — leave the fucking cart! We abandoned the first one for you guys, we’ve going to find him  _ now.”  _

They unhitch the horses. Nott sits with Caleb on his horse and they take off at a gallop, no stealth, no pacing, a fire has been lit in every last one of them. Even Caduceus, who had only met him in echoes, joins their fervor, a nicker to their steeds to encourage them to be strong and to  _ run.  _

They run, they run, they run for home.

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 

Color. 

It’s the first thing he sees when he digs himself out of the ground,  _ color.  _ Dark is what he knows, and then weight, and a movement possesses him that is Other, and frantic, and he digs and he claws until he breaks, gasping, out of the earth. Drags himself out and collapses in a panting heap, his nails digging into the soil. 

It was dark, and then it was dim, and then there is color. And he shivers, because the dim is cold, and he reaches for the color, pulls it around himself. 

It is… It  _ is.  _ The cold is less, now, and that is how he remains, hunkered down in the earth, shaking. 

He is there for a long, long time. And eventually, the same force that made him  _ dig  _ tells him to  _ move.  _ And so he does. 

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

They ride into the night, a light beaming off of Caduceus’ armor to guide their way. He tells them when the horses grow too close to exhaustion, only so they can slow them to catch their breath before bolting down the road yet again. 

They won’t stop until they’ve found him.  Caleb gets the sense that not even the end of the world could stop them, let alone petty things like exhaustion. They’ve been missing this piece for so long, but they knew where they’d lost it — now they have a chance of fitting it back into its place. 

Caduceus can force them to at least rest, though, conjures a bland meal and water with his magic for them to begrudgingly gulp down, let the horses catch their breath and drink. They’re quiet, they're agitated, staring out at the road and longing to return to it. It feels they’re running out of time. 

Caleb thinks he should not care about that. Time —  _ time  _ will bend under his hands, he just needs to learn it well enough to shape it. It should not matter that Mollymauk is alone and beyond their view, because once he’s fulfilled his goal, Mollymauk will not have died in the first place. All consequences here are temporary. The thought does not calm the thumping of his heart, though. It will still hurt, he remembers, if Mollymauk is not okay. This timeline is temporary, but it is a reality for him. The pain he feels will linger, as will the memory of his friends’.

They are hurting right now. He sees Beauregard hunkered against a tree, her eyes shut, her head bowed. It’s the posture that says she’s trying desperately to look calm, closed off, face blank, just the faintest tremor in her fingers. His eyes are pulled away, watching Jester pace in a circle, her tail lashing. He's unable to hear more than a babble of her voice from this distance.

A throat clears, catching his attention, and when he looks down he is startled to see Nott at his side. She is a sneaky thing, but he is surprised he hadn’t noticed her come up. Her broad ears are drooping low, hands wringing. “Um,” she starts, the next word twisted into a strained sound before she tugs at her ears in frustration. 

Caleb kneels down, nudges her hands down to her sides. Her nails have not been filed in some time, she could scratch herself. “Is something wrong, Nott?” He asks.

“Um. Well.” She gulps, then takes a sharp breath before lifting her bright eyes. “Do you — do you think he’ll be proud of us? I mean — I — when he…  _ died. _ We weren’t very good, were we?” 

He looks to her. Regardless what Nott says, Caleb thinks she is beautiful. There is a goodness in her, coaxed out by love and by Mollymauk’s words — _don’t steal from happy people._ And he thinks she is better for it. 

There's a pang of jealousy, for a moment, for this tiefling who has done so many good things. Beauregard, too, and Yasha, perhaps even Jester and Fjord — how many people Mollymauk had touched and left them  _ better.  _ How many people Caleb loves, but only weighs them down. 

Perhaps he should strive to be better, as well, and add another to Mollymauk’s count. 

“I think he will be very proud of us,” Caleb murmurs. “Tell him the things you have done, Nott the Brave, I think that it would make him happy.” 

Her eyes drop. And then she smiles. “Yeah... Do you think I should tell him about — you know. Who I  _ am?  _ How I got this way? He might, you know, find it funny? Like oh,  _ you  _ died and came back? Me too!  _ You  _ had a weird woman there? Me… me too,  _ gosh,  _ that’s — that’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?” Her lips twist in contemplation. 

“It sounds like you will have plenty to talk about, then.” He smiles. “Don’t be nervous. I — I don’t believe any of us knew Mollymauk well, perhaps with the exception of Yasha. But it seemed that he loved these…  _ ridiculous _ people, before anybody else did.” Long, long before he did. Or at least before he admitted such a thing. He likes them quite a bit, he would like to give them the best.

Nott relaxes, then, looking more at ease. They watch Caduceus make his rounds, a hand on shoulders, calm, quiet words. Beauregard is the only one to resist, jerking at his touch. Whatever it is that she says, it makes him dip his head. Pat her arm before coming to calm Jester out of her spiraling step. 

They filter back to their mounts as one, rested and fed, the horses ready to start again. He can only pray that they will find their eighth soon — the horses do not care, and at a point, they will not move.  For now, though, they are willing, and they spur them back along the road, ignoring their aches. The pain in their legs, their knees, their hands, their backs — it is _nothing._

It starts to rain. 

The sky opens up, a pattering of water before it is falling upon them. Beauregard snarls a curse. Beside him, Yasha’s voice is hushed, a prayer, and it feels that he is intruding as she whispers,  _ “Please, please, I do not ask you for anything, I carry your will, give me this —”  _

Lighting splits the sky. Caleb sees her face, the hope flashed upon it. They cannot run, not as the road grows thick with water and mud, but they press onwards through the downpour. It is a gray world, obscured thirty feet beyond their view, and still they trudge to the end of their path. Yasha is stiff and resolute, guiding their way through the storm. 

They walk. The rain soaks them to the bone, frigid despite the heat not hours before, but still they walk. 

And then there is color. 

Fallen, off the side of the road. It is dark, dampened by the rain, wine red and purple. Yasha sees it first, and he knows this because she is suddenly spurring her horse as fast as it will move through the mud, and then one by one they see the cause of her rush and give chase. She slings her leg over the side, barely gets her horse to slow before she drops, oozing earth splashing up her pants going ignored as she runs for this figure. 

When they rejoin her, she is sobbing. And there’s a moment of fear, colder than the rain, before she throws her head up, flushed and scrunched and sobbing with  _ joy.  _

“It’s Molly,” she gasps. They collapse around her, crowd around the unconscious tiefling in her arms. “It’s  _ Molly.  _ Oh  _ gods, thank you —”  _

Caleb sighs, and draws away. He fishes a bead from his pocket and sits down right there in the mud, the rejoicing of his friends filling his ears, Jester’s shrill celebration and Fjord’s  _ “I’ll be damned,”  _ and Beau’s soft,  _ “Holy shit. Holy shit.”  _ Nott is quiet, hand clasped over her mouth as she leans into Jester’s side. Caduceus is the only one calm — but calm is not to be mistaken for detached, he watches their joy with a softness in his face. 

And Caleb is a ritual caster, he takes pride and comfort in the discipline of his method. Tonight, though, they are cold, and exhausted, and he cuts the time down to just a minute to bring a hut shimmering into being. A barrier of magic slips over the mud below, the wet still clinging to him but evaporating as it drips from his clothes. 

He gives a whistle, beckoning to them through the barrier. “We should, ah, get Mollymauk out of the rain, don’t you think?” 

“Oh yes!” Jester gasps. “I need to make sure he’s —  _ fuuuuck,  _ I didn’t prepare the — the disease-curing spell! He might be sick!” She looks to his limp form, having presumably just collapsed off the road.

“I feel like that’s more from the  _ rising from the grave  _ thing,” Beau murmurs, helping Yasha bundle him up to carry him. “... He was just laying in the mud, though.  _ Fuck.”  _

Caduceus nudges them towards the hut, gentle. “I can always prepare that in the —” 

_ “No.”  _ The firbolg pauses, head turning to Jester. Her fists clench at her sides, and she draws a sharp breath. “Mollymauk is  _ our  _ friend. I’m going to heal him, okay?” 

He blinks for a moment, ears perking in surprise. It is the first time, he thinks, that there has been an  _ us  _ that excludes him. But he nods, and he smiles. “Of course. You want to take care of him, I get that. You care a lot about him.” He starts for the hut again without a word, and if he is offended, Caleb cannot tell as he brushes past him to slip inside. The rest follow. 

Wet and dripping, they begin to strip their clothes down to just their underwear. Nott is the only one too shy, opts to disguise herself into an illusion with clothes instead. 

They peel the coat off Mollymauk and find he has nothing underneath.  Jester gasps, “We get to take him shopping!” with such a delight that it brings a faint smile to Caleb’s face. “Molly is the  _ best  _ to shop with, Caduceus! And I bet he’ll  _ love  _ you, you’re so pretty and pink and your armor is so shiny. You can come with us!” 

Perhaps it's an apology. Caduceus takes it, whatever it is, his voice low and gentle as always, “That sounds real nice."

It's the most chatter they make for the night, a million thoughts buzzing like flies and none of them able to catch one. Mollymauk remains asleep. Uncertain what to do with him, they lay him out, close by without crowding him, the rest of them settling for the night. Nott sleeps with her back to Calebs, Beau becomes Jester’s little spoon, wrapped up under one arm and the curl of her tail. Yasha lingers close to Molly, sitting upright as the rest of them fall asleep. 

Caleb, too, does not immediately drift. He watches her, instead, silent for a long, long time, watches how Yasha combs out the tiefling’s hair, longer and shaggier than how they’d left him. When that is done, she folds her hands in her lap, and remains still. 

He speaks, voice cracked in the late night, “Would you like to go to sleep?” 

Yasha looks at him, startled. “Caleb,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry — I can lay down, if this is —” 

“No, no. I just thought, if you can’t sleep, I might be able to help you. It technically only lasts for about a minute but, ah, perhaps if you want to sleep, and if you are tired, it would remain…” He drifts off. “Would you like me to do that?”

Yasha is quiet. Then she nods. “Yeah. Yeah.” She moved to drag his coat over without even a word from Caleb, lets him fish through his pockets until he finds a little bag of sand. He drags the grains over one eye. He would never be able to put her out against her will, he ponders, but here, in the quiet, when he can focus and she can give in, he stacks careful levels of magic over each other, and watches as her eyelids droop. She settles down on her back when he reaches the third layer, murmurs a quiet, “Thank you, Caleb,” before he presses the fourth. And then her eyes fall shut. 

Caleb waits the minute, counts the seconds perfectly in his head. Counts them again. Her breathing is deep, and even, and slow. 

He lays back down, stares at the stars through the dome he’d built and relays the properties of transmutation back to himself, around and around until his own eyes grow heavy. 

  
  
  
  


They wake just as the dome vanishes around them. It’s a sudden gust of humid air that has Caleb’s eyes opening, finding cloudy but blue skies stretching overhead. There’s a weight around him — Nott, down to her underwear now that her disguise spell has worn out. He sits up, finds a few others active as well. Caduceus, having put a fire together to heat a kettle and a pan of a sizzling something. Beauregard is going through her morning stretches. The rest are still asleep. 

Caleb takes his coat, finding it dry now, and drapes it over Nott. He slips back into his other garments, the movement rousing a few more, and their stretching and yawning waking the rest. One by one, everyone is up. 

All except for Mollymauk. There is a palpable relief — that he had not been a dream, that he is here and. Perhaps not  _ well,  _ but he is breathing. 

“Should we wake him up?” Fjord is the first to suggest it. “Or, I guess, at least see if we  _ can  _ before trying to figure out if he’s sick or somethin’.”

“Yeah, I’m going to lose my mind if we just wait for him to wake up,” Beau adds, her arms crossed. “Should, uh…“ Her head turns to Yasha. All their heads turn to Yasha. 

She blinks. And then she nods. “Okay. Yes, um…” Her breath draws in, trembling. “It’s funny,” she says, toying with a lock of hair. “I… I was so  _ happy  _ when we found him. But now I am just…  _ scared.”  _

“... Would you like someone else to do it?” Nott offers. “Or do you want a drink, maybe?” 

“No. No.” Yasha gives her a strained little smile. “Thank you, Nott, but… I can do it.” She stoops down, picking up his coat and shaking the dirt off of it before laying it delicately over Mollymauk’s form. And, kneeling beside him, she puts a hand on his shoulder, gives him a little shake. “Molly,” she says. 

His eyes pinch. A breath is caught. 

“Mollymauk,” she says, more insistent this time, a strong jostle. “Wake up, please. It’s Yasha.” 

There’s a long moment, a stretch of agony. And then those eyes open, the same deep red they all remember. Hazy eyes, looking first at the sky, and then the woman standing over him. Something crosses his face. He makes a sound, cracked and wordless as he strains upright. At once, Yasha is supporting him, helping him sit up, a hand at his back. 

“Molly?” She says again. He’s rubbing one eye, tail curling in a languid manner over the ground. Slowly, his head turns, tips to one side. There is still that haze over his eyes. 

He makes a noise, a sigh, forked tongue swiping over his lips. One by one, he takes them all in, no change in his expression. And he tries to speak, just a croak at first, hand going to his throat. A murmur, a shift, and a waterskin is being passed between them, making its way to Yasha to hand to him.

Before that, though, he speaks. The first word they’ve heard from their dear friend, a voice they’d missed for so, so long. 

He says,  _ “Empty.” _


	3. Chapter 3

“Do you think Molly would like this?” 

Caleb was never a good shopper. Content to wear what his mother bought him, he only looked up from his books if he was in a shop full of more. It’s much the same, as Jester tugs him this way and that, through racks of colorful clothing, adorned with lace or buttons or satin or glitter, whatever bright thing cause her eye. These are expensive, turn-you-head kind of clothes, the kind Caleb would never touch. 

Mollymauk, however, would have a field day in here, if he were capable. Jester holds up a red blouse, the kind with a low collar and buttons that are just for show. Bright, matching his eyes. Caleb is honest when he says, “I think Mollymauk would, yes.” 

Of course, they aren’t shopping for Mister Mollymauk. In spirit, they are, but the person who will receive these clothes —  _ well.  _

It is too soon to tell, they all insist. He has not yet learned to say much more than  _ empty.  _ Sometimes ‘ _ okay.’ ‘Hungry’  _ when he is so. ‘ _ Tired, thirsty.’  _ Bare essentials, rasped in a toneless voice. He is close to an animal, just enough intelligence to communicate what he needs. Less than that, really, Frumpkin knows how to purr when he wants to be scratched behind the ears, rolls over onto his belly with bright eyes with its time to play. The tiefling they have picked up is not even capable of  _ want _ just yet. So to call that thing  _ Mollymauk _ is a disservice to his hedonistic memory.

But they do. Hope or denial, whichever it is, they still call it by his name. Even Caleb is guilty of it. 

They trail out of the shop with their arms full of bags, pants and shirts and skirts and even a few glittery things all thrown in. They’ve all been sharing their garments to clothe the tiefling, but it is high time they get some things that fit him. Jester takes most of the bags when she sees Caleb’s arms quiver under their weight, letting him lead the way back to the inn the others rented out for the night. 

The rest of the Nein are seated, two tables pressed up together to fit eight chairs into one spot. Beau spots them across the bar, signaling to catch their eye. Fjord is beside her, Caduceus beside him. Molly takes the end of one table, head hanging low, appearing to have fallen asleep, Yasha beside him, her back to them as she runs her fingers through his hair. 

“Molly!” Jester squeals, bouncing up to him as Caleb follows at a slower pace. Yasha tenses at once, but Mollymauk has already been roused. His eyes slit open, perhaps disturbed by the noise, but he does not move. 

“Molly,” she repeats, drawling. And when he doesn’t respond, Jester cups his chin to turn his gaze to them. “I know you’re sleepy but you’re going to  _ love  _ what Caleb and I bought for you,” she gushes, yanking the red blouse out and beaming at him as she holds it up on display. 

Molly’s gaze turns to it. His head tips faintly to one side. 

“Well?” Jester presses. “What do you think?”

Some seats away, Beau grimaces. “Hey, Jess,” she starts. Then Molly moves, and her voice dies, eyes snapping to him. 

Molly takes the shirt from her. He trails his fingers over the soft cotton. Lifts it, rubs it over his cheek. The eyes slit shut again, reminding Caleb of Frumpkin’s face whenever he finds the  _ good  _ spot under his chin. His pointed ears flick when Jester squeals, “You like it! Oh I knew you would. Look, look, I have more!” 

Dinner is ignored, all eyes on Mollymauk as he explores their offerings. It’s easy to find a trend in what he likes. Colorful things are grabbed first, and then rubbed on the cheek. Every soft garment is kept, and even those with rougher material are placed in the pile so long as they are deemed bright enough. A scratchy black skirt is ignored entirely, despite the smoother satin that lines its inside. 

They’re transfixed when he gets to the jewelry. His eyes widen and he holds up a silver chain, rubies linked between them. A few heads turn, a few eyes caught by the sight of something so expensive. Beauregard lifts her eyebrows right back at them, eases up on the table and lets her biceps flex as she leans her weight down on her arms. The stares drop. 

And thank the gods they do, because if they hadn’t she would have missed the moment when Mollymauk smiles. He’s staring, transfixed, at the jewelry Jester bought for him, and suddenly his mouth is hanging open in this awed, lopsided grin. She hears Yasha’s breath catch and Fjord murmur under his breath as Molly toys with the chain, turns the jewels over in his fingers. 

Jester’s tail is curling in delight, a gloss in her eyes. “You like it,” she sniffs. “You really like it. I’m so glad, Molly.” She rubs her eye, and Beauregard is absolutely definitely not feeling her own sting all of a sudden. “Do you want me to put it on for you?”

Molly’s head turns to her. The joy fades, but not to that  _ emptiness  _ from before. His eyes are attentive. And he rasps,  _ “Okay.”  _

So Jester delicately takes the chain from his hand and threads it through the gap in his horn. After a moment she gasps, dives into her bag, and yanks out a mirror to display for him. “There! You look so pretty, don’t you, Molly?” 

He stares at his reflection. Turns his head, pushes the chain with one finger, traces the feathers tattooed onto his jaw. 

He says, “Molly.” 

And when Beau blinks, his face has gone perfectly blank again. He slumps into his chair, his eyelids hooding, chin tipped down against his chest, the energy gone, the  _ life  _ in him a ghost.  _ “Empty,” _ he breathes.

Beau’s heart aches. She turns away, seizes a plate from their stack with a clatter. “Food’s getting fuckin’ cold,” she grunts, and the table comes back to life as they slowly serve themselves. Yasha will coax bites of food into his mouth, quiet encouragement and praise for every bite. 

“He’ll come around,” she murmurs. “It is taking a little while. But I think he’s in there.”

Beau is not so sure. But Yasha has already lost so much. If she has to pray — to the Traveler, the Stormlord, the Wild Mother, the Moonweaver — then she will. Beau has never been one to wait for gods to solve her problems, prefers her own path to some celestial riddle. But right now, she’d take a little guidance. Not just for Yasha, but for all of them, she’ll pray for what they’ve lost. 

  
  
  


When they go to get their room keys, Caleb is somewhat thrown receiving  _ four.  _

“I’m with Molly,” Yasha says, immediately, taking one key from Fjord. There’s a beat where he looks ready to protest, before his face clears and he nods. 

“‘Course,” he says, and that’s all Yasha needs —  _ less  _ than she needs, really — to take Mollymauk’s hand and nudge him towards the stairs. His weight sags against her, and for a moment they are not in a noisy tavern but a quiet field, not far from the tents offset against the horizon. She holds Mollymauk’s hand, his tail curled around her leg for good measure, and they scout around for flowers between patches of clovers

And then they’re at the top of a creaky flight of stairs and Yasha is sliding a delicate key into a lock. There are two beds, a window. The skies are clear, the stars glimmering down at them. For once, she is glad. If the Stormlord were to call her away now, she is not sure what she would do. Today, though, he is kind. Or perhaps she is simply following his path as it is. 

“... Let’s get you dressed,” she murmurs, turning to Mollymauk. He lets her disrobe him, his movements heavy as she pulls the shirt over his head, slides pants and underwear off his hips. Caleb had remembered to buy him underwear and pajamas, thankfully, tail-holes included. And that is why they sent him along in the first place. 

Once he’s dressed in soft, pink pajamas, she nudges him to one bed, tucks him in. He goes without complaint, shuts his eyes when she strokes his hair. “Sleep well,” Yasha murmurs. 

She knows she will not. 

Yasha spends her night staring up at the boards of the ceiling. Mollymauk will be back in time. He will. He will. He has to be. If he does not, then Yasha truly is cursed, and perhaps she will have to leave the others before she damns them as well. 

“Please,” she whispers, to empty skies. “I could not keep her. Let me keep him. If I have to be the one who is lost, that is fine, but please do not take more from me.” 

There is no answer. She is glad for it. 

And then the bed creaks. Her head turns, watching as Molly sits upright. He slides out of bed, rises. For a moment he seems to stager and his tail lashes out behind him to catch his balance, and then he is staggering, one step, two, three, across the room. Yasha is quiet. She watches him. 

Molly comes to stand at her bedside. His face is tired, ears and posture drooping. But he is there. 

“Did you want to share?” Yasha asks, remembering, again, the nights spent with a tiefling curled at her front, tail twined around her calf. He doesn’t answer, so she shifts aside, pulls the blankets back in a silent offer. And Molly sinks into the bed beside her, burrows into her chest, arm curling tight around her. 

_ “Molly,”  _ he whispers. “Empty, e-empty.  _ Molly.”  _


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning. The timeline for this is unknown because CR updates weekly and it's impossible to keep up with my writing. However I myself do keep up with each update, so just be aware of that.

Life can’t come to a complete halt for Mollymauk. Try as they might, gold runs out faster than they realize, the cost for a new wardrobe, for lodgings night by night, for food, for the stock of potions they buy out of a sense of unanimous paranoia.  _ In case the clerics can’t heal. _

They don’t know how Mollymauk came to rise again, twice now. They’re not willing to see if they can make it to three. They’re not willing to let diamonds fail over his cold skin. 

The long and the short of it is that the Nein are running low on funds. It’s what has Fjord laying a paper out on a table, clearing his throat to catch the group’s attention. Caleb does not look up from his book, nor does Beau from hers, nor do Jester or Nott look up from where they’re putting shiny clips into Molly’s hair. 

“A- _ hem,”  _ Fjord repeats. 

“Mmm-hmm?” Caduceus hums. “We’re listening.” 

“Right. Thank you, Caduceus.” Out of the periphery of his vision, Caleb can see the sharp nod Fjord gives. “I think I found something that will at least tide us over until the next job,” he says, tapping the paper. “Sounds like there’re some, uh, renegades that need arrestin’. It’s sort of our usual shtick, shouldn’t be too difficult accordin’ to the description.” 

“I’ll stay here with Mollymauk, then,” Yasha says, immediately. 

“I’ll stay back as well,” Caleb murmurs, shifting to the next page. “I need to transcribe a few things.”

“Now — hang, hang on.” Fjord clears his throat again. “Yasha, we could — I don’t wanna push you, but we could use the help. There’s a lot of these folks we’ve gotta round up and, I mean, I’d hate to leave all the heavy-lifting to Jester.”

Jester perks up at the sound of her name. “Oh, yeah! Yasha we  _ never  _ hang out any more. Like I  _ get  _ it but I really do miss beating people up with you.”

And Yasha winces. Her reluctance — everyone understands it. Everyone feels it, but hers is palpable, a weight in the air. “Well. I mean, I feel — I feel like I may be needed in two places at once here.” 

Caleb sighs, sliding a marker into his book. “None of us will make you do anything you’re not comfortable with,” he says, lifting his eyes to meet Yasha’s gaze before both of them glance away. “Mollymauk can stay with me and Frumpkin while you all are gone. I can even use my little hut to make sure we’re both perfectly safe in the room. But if you prefer to stay, then you stay.”   
  
To his faint surprise, some of the tension winds out of Yasha’s shoulders. “I mean…” She’s hesitant, head turning towards the doors. “It is looking a bit cloudy out… maybe we’ll get some rain.” There’s a note of hope in her voice as she says it. 

“Yeah!” Jester beams, her tail curling behind her. “And I can use sending to talk to them  _ whenever  _ you want me to, okay, Yasha?”

“I — yeah. Yeah. Okay.” She gives a tentative nod, a wavering smile. “Just. Keep him close, please?” Her gaze shifts from Caleb to Mollymauk, her voice somehow going even softer as she tilts his chin up. Molly’s hooded gaze finds hers, he nudges into her hand. “I’ll be back soon, okay, Mollymauk? Stay out of trouble.” And she leans forward to kiss his forehead, the tiefling’s eyes drifting shut as a faint, vacant smile flickers across his mouth. 

And that is how Caleb ends up in a room with his cat and with Mollymauk. 

Caleb has always been a quiet person. He needed his privacy to read, concentration failing when there was noise peppered about his ears — though that was a skill he’d honed quite keenly since meeting the Nein. So it’s surprising, to him, when he realizes he misses the chatter. Mollymauk on his own had not been a noisy person, would engage in idle conversation but let it peter out into a natural, comfortable silence. Caleb cannot pretend he knew Mollymauk all that well, nor could he pretend to have been particularly close to him, but there is something he’d appreciated simply in his good sense for when to be  _ quiet.  _

Now he misses the idle conversation. Random questions:  _ “What’s the weirdest place you’ve ever been? The best drink you’ve ever had? If you could do one deadly thing and  _ not  _ die or be scarred for life, what would you do? I think I’d stick my hands in lava.”  _

He’d sprinkle inane details about himself, things that say nothing about who he is but gave them details only they would know — Caleb remembers with clarity that Mollymauk longs for the day he can find a drink he had in a southbound city, that tasted like spiced apple cider mixed with herbal tea and burned like whiskey going down the throat.  _ “I know I’m  _ never  _ going to have it ever again, but gods I can hope.” _

Caleb lifts his eyes. Mollymauk, or the person they’ve given his name, has pulled a clip from his hair and is turning it over and over again. Like a child exploring a brand new thing, watching how the light glimmers, feeling the smooth texture of the quartz flower. He’s incredibly tactile like this, putting his hands on any new, eye-catching thing. 

A thought has Frumpkin slipping from Caleb’s lap and up onto the bed. He mews for attention, Molly’s eyes flicking to him at once as Frumpkin butts his head against the tiefling’s arm. He gives another warbling meow, ducks down to push against his hand. Caleb watches as Molly lifts his hand, then winces at the careless way he drags it down his cat’s back. 

Despite the rougher treatment, Frumpkin pads into his lap and lays down there, purring up a storm as Molly keeps stroking his flank. There’s that distant smile on his face again, such a soft look despite the sharp fangs, the horns, the blood-red eyes.

And then there is a crack. A low, roiling boom, one that makes Frumpkin jump to his paws and bolt out of sight, Mollymauk gasp and go still, Caleb clutch his book tight. The thunder pushes on the ears, a new bout rolling atop the first, seconds ticking by of pure, mindless noise. And then it fades. 

The sound of rain begins to patter outside. Caleb braces a hand against his chest, heart racing, catching his breath. Yasha will be happy, he muses, head turning. 

The sound of the mattress squeaking makes him glance back again. Mollymauk is getting to his feet, padding towards the window. A frown on his face, Caleb stands as well but doesn’t intervene. He only watches as Molly finds the window’s latch and pushes it open. 

A wind gusts through the gap. In the minutes since the rest of the Nein had left, a full storm had opened up over the city. It blows Molly’s hair back as he grabs the pane and tries to press it further, tail lashing when it doesn’t budge. There’s a low sound — a  _ growl,  _ Caleb realizes, a malcontented sound in Mollymauk’s throat. 

He’s rarely heard it from Mollymauk — Jester always more open about the infernal sounds she could make, growls that bent into snarls, purrs deep in the chest. He remembers long, laughing conversations, hisses and growls and the twisted sounds of infernal made sweet on their lips, purple and blue curved into smiles, tails twined, a moment shared just for the two of them. 

“Do you… want to go outside?” Caleb ventures. Abruptly, he wishes Yasha were here after all. Authority has ceded to her in regards to all things Mollymauk. 

Molly turns to him, a brightness in his gaze. “Outside,” he repeats. It’s the first word Caleb has heard him say, save for his name, save for  _ empty.  _ It gives him a long beat of pause, a moment of flaring hope. That’s progress, and progress is always good.

“O-kay.” He chews his lip for a moment and then sighs. “If you get sick then everyone will have my hide, do you understand that?” 

And Mollymauk  _ grins.  _ Bright and sharp, it’s impossible for him to deny when it makes his chest  _ twist.  _ “Right. Let’s go… get ourselves soaked and freezing, I guess.” 

The tiefling springs to his feet with a rare burst of energy, already trotting towards the door. Caleb is quick to catch up with him, turns to Frumpkin and says, “Come on, then. Yes, I know, I’m sorry. I’ll poof you in and out, I promise, you’ll be dry as soon as we’re out of the rain.” 

And Frumpkin stalks towards him, dissatisfied but willing as he leaps up Caleb’s back and perches up on his shoulder. He opens the door, but catches Molly’s wrist before he can go darting ahead. “You stay with me, okay? The others are not so keen to lose you just like that. And — I would rather not be the one to lose you. So stay close to me, please?” 

If people had just stayed close — if they had just been smarter, been quicker. If they had just heard the fight that broke out. If, if, if. He’s not going to let another one of them die.

It’s all temporary anyway, but it hurts. It still hurts. 

Mollymauk trails at his side. It gives him a start when something brushes up against his leg — his tail, he realizes, forming a loose curl around his thigh. One way to keep him from getting lost. He wonders if perhaps that’s how tiefling parents keep track of their children, twisting their tails instead of holding hands. Mollymauk does not remember a mother or a father or a parent of any sort, and perhaps it is biased of Caleb to think it tragic.

Outside, it is pouring rain. He hesitates, but the pull of Molly’s tail has him stepping out into the storm, eyes squinting as he’s doused in an instant. His hair sags down in a curtain, clothes soaked through. Frumpkin’s claws dig tight into his shoulder, and he mumbles an apology. 

He has to bite back a protest when Mollymauk strolls forward. His tail comes uncoiled, waving through the rain. His head tips upwards, eyes shut, water sluicing down his face, pouring through his hair. A fork of lightning splits the sky, casting deep shadows for just a beat. Thunder rolls. 

“Do you like the rain, then?” Caleb asks. Molly’s eyes blink open, but he does not look down, just squints up at the sky. “I don’t remember this. Perhaps I wasn’t paying attention.” Perhaps it’s new. Perhaps this isn’t Mollymauk at all. It’s impossible to say, and Caleb is rarely at  _ such  _ a loss. There are no books for him to read, none that he would be able to find. Just a strange tiefling, his life twice forgotten.

They linger out there for a long, long time, Mollymauk seemingly frozen in some strange reverie, just standing out in the rain. Caleb lingers long after he begins to shiver, unwilling to leave him alone, unwilling to call him inside. It’s not until he finds a similar tremor in Molly’s form that he strides forward, splashing in the water that’s gathered on the pavement, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

“Come on,” he says. “If you catch a cold, the only people who will not exact vengeance are Nott and Caduceus. Let’s go inside.” 

And to his relief, Mollymauk obliges him. The two of them trail back into the tavern, dripping water and earning glares from the staff. Caleb only asks them if they have a bath available. 

Downstairs, they have tubs enchanted with runes of  _ Create Water  _ and  _ Prestidigitation.  _ The latter, Caleb controls, making sure the water won’t burn Mollymauk. And then he strips him down, an act that felt strange at first but he’s quickly become desensitized to. Bodies are no longer shameful things, and of all people he knows Mollymauk would have no shame being seen nudge. 

He sets the coat on a rack and starts wicking the water out of it, small casts of the same cantrip to pull moisture from the fabric. Behind him, he hears Mollymauk climbing into the water. The contented “ _ Ahhh,”  _ from behind is so familiar that his breath stops, and they’re all in a bathhouse and staring at Yasha, the strange coincidence that it was to find her there, Mollymauk shameless and Nott (he winces here) refusing to get into the water despite their insistence, they haven’t met Caduceus yet and he doesn’t trust these people but he thinks maybe he can rely on them, maybe he can at least use them for a little while longer. 

He misses the old days, sometimes, but only for Mollymauk. He does not miss the loneliness, or the fear. 

Caleb shivers. Perhaps he should draw a bath of his own, just to warm up. 

  
  
  


Caleb ends up catching a cold. He’s the one coughing under the blankets, head pounding, Nott fussing over him like the mother she is. There’s talk of moving on, perhaps finding Jester’s mother in Nicodranas to let Mollymauk rest and recuperate properly, where they won’t need to drag him around in carts all day and take whatever jobs they can find to pay for the day-to-day. They tell him of the Empty House, regardless of whether or not he is listening or understanding. Someone will need to share a room with him, they say. 

Caleb coughs until his chest aches. He does not understand much about clerical magic, but the fact they cannot cure this cold makes him snippy at best. Mollymauk lays in the bed beside his own, sleeping peacefully. 

At least it wasn’t him, he thinks, rueful. Mollymauk has such a lust for being alive — let him bask in it for a while longer before he learns about terrible things like illness again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT:
> 
> Unfortunately, I’ll probably be discontinuing this one! I normally give it a couple of days to gauge interest, and having only gotten one comment I have to assume that there isn’t much for this one. I’m sad about it, this is a story I wanted to write, but if there are so few people enjoying it then I’d rather direct my focus elsewhere.

**Author's Note:**

> First CR fic on Ao3! I have a couple of others on tumblr that I may toss onto here later, but they're just simple oneshots. 
> 
> Chances are, I'm gonna be writing a dozen different rez fics. There are just, so _many_ possibilities.


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